


The Congo Affair

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya are trapped in the Belgian Congo during a bloody coup, and must find a way to escape or be captured and executed.<br/>Some scenes of violence but nothing explicit. Mild het.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting the Scene

_**An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,-** _  
_**Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow**_  
_**Through public scorn, mud from a muddy spring,-** _  
_**Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,** _  
_**But leech-like to their fainting country cling,** _  
_**Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-** _  
_**A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,-** _  
_**An army which liberticide and prey** _  
_**Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,-** _  
_**Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;** _  
_**Religion Christless, Godless, a book sealed,-** _  
_**A Senate—Time's worst statute unrepealed,-** _  
_**Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may** _  
**_Burst to illumine our tempestuous day_.**

**~ English In 1819~Percy Bysshe Shelley**

 

 

 

 

****

**"The Congo Affair"**

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin hurried along the streets of Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo, only stopping quickly at a small general store that typically carried anything from household needs, dry goods to freeze-dried foods, guns and supplies for safaris.

Though at this point, due to the panic in the city, the shelves were nearly empty. The agents grabbed two backpacks, stuffing them with what rations they could find, binoculars, a compass, matches, knives...anything basic that would suit their purposes. The last thing Illya grabbed was a map, indicating the roads and trails they would need to get them through Kasaï province to Kantanga and across the border to safety.

The city was in an uproar with fires erupting everywhere the populace running in near terror to escape, as rebel forces had portions of it cut off, with the way to the airport gone.

To the two agents, making the dangerous journey through the rainforest was now their only choice. The anti-government forces were taking prisoners of any white people, herding them to the center of the city where rumors of arbitrary executions taking place.

 

It was one o'clock in the morning when Alexander Waverly decided to call it a day, though leaving headquarters at this time was actually early for him.

He was lucky that his darling wife Estelle managed to keep nearly the same hours as he after all these years, run a well-organized household and raise their two children without so much as one word of complaint.

Their fourth grandchild was due to arrive soon, and that had her mind quite occupied at the moment. She'd be leaving for Boston to tend to their daughter Florence until she was settled in with the new baby.

Thanks to the advances in ultrasound, the parents were aware what gender the child was to be, but the grandparents were old-fashioned and wanted to be surprised. Their son Edmund had already presented them with three grandsons, and Alexander suspected that Estelle was hoping for a little girl, so she would be able to do all the frilly female things with the child as she had with Florence, bless her heart.

The Old Man walked to the narrow windows of his office, looking out at the New York skyline now being blanketed in a light snowfall. This cold weather was beginning to become tiresome, and he was looking forward to Spring.

He sighed, wishing he could go to Boston to be there for the birth of the child, but it was simply impossible. His was a position that required constant attention. Alexander suddenly chuckled, remembering that his agents thought he never slept, and was here twenty-four-seven. Though it wasn't true, sometimes he too felt like it was.

He became annoyed with himself, as he'd missed not only the birth of his children, but those of the grandsons as well.

"Dash it all," Waverly said, deciding he'd take that trip to Boston with his wife after all. "A child is born only once."

A light on his console flashed as soon as he uttered those words, and flicking a toggle switch, he picked up the hand held microphone and spoke into it.

"Yes, go ahead."

"Reynolds here, Section IV sir, we've just received word that Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin have been cut off in the Belgian Congo. They were unable to get out before the coup."

"What's their current status?"

"They're going to try to make it through to the province of Katanga and over the border to Northern Rhodesia."

"We can't get a helicopter in to retrieve them?"

"No sir the situation is too volatile, the revolution has triggered all sorts of ethnic rivalries. The killing is out of control by government troops and the rebels, as well as with a number of the indigenous tribes."

"Can you give me more specifics Mr. Reynolds?"

"Yes sir. The rebels have been taking members of the local white population hostage in areas under their control, several hundred prisoners have been brought to Stanleyville and placed under guard in the Victoria Hotel. The government forces there in the city fled, leaving behind their munitions, including mortars and armored vehicles, free for the taking by rebels. They're heavily armed now and thirsty for...well you understand sir." He paused, the gravity of the situation telling in his voice.

"Go on Mr. Reynolds."

"The rebel movement is spreading in an uncontrolled manner and acts of violence are increasing exponentially. Thousands of Congolese have been executed, many of them government officials, political leaders of the opposition parties, police, school teachers, basically anyone, regardless of their skin color, who's been as Westernized. Word is there have been extremely brutal executions carried out in Stanleyville in front of a monument to the ousted PM Patrice Lumumba."

There was silence. "Mr. Waverly sir?"

"Hmmm, yes. Get me a line to the Belgian Ambassador...no strike that, make that the U.N. Security Council."

"Mr. Waverly sir, it's one-fifteen in the morning, the council isn't in session at the moment, I already checked in anticipation of your request."

"Hmmm yes, quite, good thinking. Very well then, get me the line to the Belgian Ambassador, and I don't care if you have to wake him, but first connect me to my home. I need to speak to Mrs. Waverly."

"Yes sir, right away."

There was a series of clicks, a dial-tone and then ringing."

"Yes _Alexander?_ "

"Estelle I'm sorry but..."

"I know, the world needs saving. Do what you have to do. My trip to Boston is delayed somewhat by the snow, so I'll be here waiting for you." Her soft voice was full of tenderness and understanding as she was long accustomed to her husbands long work days.

At least she knew he was safe, not like back in the days when he was with British Intelligence. She kept late nights then as well, but they were fraught with worry. Now she simply stayed up late due habit, and to greet her husband with a nice cup of chamomile tea to soothe him from his day's worries as he walked in the door.

"Estelle my darling,.."

"Yes Alexander?"

"When was the last time I told you how much I loved you dear girl?"

"Why not that so long ago Alex, but you can tell me again..."


	2. On the run

  
  
                
  
  
The situation in the capital city of Leopoldville had gone from bad to worse too quickly and being cut off from getting to the airport with  the other refugees, Solo and Kuryakin found themselves preparing to run for their lives as the ruling forces had changed places. UNCLE was no longer welcome, as were any foreigners at the moment.

The quickly growing conflict had taken on aspects of an anti-colonial struggle, along with a secessionist war with the province of Katanga, a U.N. peacekeeping operation, and a Cold War clandestine battle between the United States and the Soviet Union.

Soviet troops under the guise of advisors had been secreted into the country, Belgian troops were trying to get people out of the country and were massing their troops in Katanga with United Nations troops on the way to try to help calm the insanity and protect the innocent from the Simba rebels who were playing a leading part in the frenzy.

Operatives of the C.I.A. were there, along with Soviet intelligence somewhere... The reality of it all was that no one, including civilians, were safe. There were just too many variables, too many agendas.

The leaders of this revolution were former members of _Parti Solidaire Africain,_  a political party that had been very active in the Belgian Congo. The PSA quickly became one of the best organized of the parties that emerged, and established a strong base amongst the rural communities of the Kwango and Kwilu Districts.

Along with the  _Mouvement National_ _Congolai_ s the PSA was unusual among the new parties in that it did not identify with one ethnic group but rather preached socialism. The sudden elimination of Patrice Lumumba as Prime Minister saw the PSA go into opposition and the rebellion that broke out first in Kwilu was the work of a wing of the PSA under a Maoist named Pierre Mulele. Politically, were they were now leaning to the left. But once the coup had taken place, what these groups preached, and what was practiced by their rebel armies were akin to ethnic cleansing among their own people.

Most of their followers were tribesmen from the provinces of Kivu and Orientale, the majority of whom came from traditional African cultures with animist beliefs. Animism was a religious view, believing that 'natural physical entities... animals, plants, and even inanimate objects or phenomena possessed a spiritual power.'

The tribal soldiers called themselves 'Simba' as they had been told by shamans they would be immune to bullets when they fought, and would be transformed into "Simba", the Swahili word for lion. It became their shield, making them fearless, and empowered them to deal out abuse and death without so much as a second thought. It didn't matter if the victims were innocent women and children...it was the Simba belief that they were in the right and had the great spirit of the lion to protect them.

The fighting started in Thyssville, in the western part of the of Congo, lying on a short branch off the Matadi-Kinshasa Railway, and the seeds of revolution quickly spread to the rest of the country. The President, Kasa-Vubu, declared prime minister Patrice Lumumba deposed and vice versa. The stalemate between the two men ended with the arrest of Lumumba. He was flown to the mining province of Katanga, which by that time had declared a secession from Léopoldville under the leadership of Moïse Tshombe with Belgian government and troops backing him.

 

"At least they haven't executed Lumumba," Napoleon said, as he and his partner quickly sorted through their backpacks filled with the barest of necessities, a change or two of basic clothing, and the supplies they'd scrounged at the general store. They had their Specials, extra magazines, one machete, two canteens, and enough rations to last them a week if they were careful.

The were the few things the UNCLE agents could only get their hands on in a hurry as it wasn't safe to be seen in public; the color of their skin made them a bit obvious. The rebel Simbas had already invaded parts of the capitol and were making prisoners of white people. If Napoleon and Illya were captured, and found out to be UNCLE agents; they would no doubt be executed very publicly.

The way to the airport had been cut off and the last of the flights evacuating refugees and foreigners being run by Belgian military troops were long over.

It was impossible for a helicopter extraction as there were none close by, and the region was so unstable and violent at the moment that the chances were it would probably be shot down by bazookas. Public transportation was out of the question as well, and at this point was barely running. No, Solo and Kuryakin were on their own, and a long, arduous trek through the jungle was their only option at the moment. It was either that or stay put and risk capture and most definitely death.

"For the moment," Illya, ever the determinist, responded to his partner's comment, about the prime minister's life expectancy.

He tied the strings closed on his pack, and pulled his Special, checking it, and putting two extra clips into the pockets of his khaki shirt, His clothing was disheveled and too big for him. His way of thinking, if he didn't look all crisp and clean, he would stand out less. Much to Solo's dislike, the Russian rumpled up his clothing as well, as Napoleon was too neat, as always.

"And lose that kerchief around your neck as you look like a dandy," the Russian barked at him.

"You know you really can play the fatalist at the wrong time," Napoleon said, still hoping Patrice Lumumba, would survive. "And there's nothing wrong with my bandana," he quipped.

"It is not a bandana, its is a fancy silk neckerchief, now get rid of it," Illya practically growled, "and I am simply being pragmatic." He was not in the best of moods given his aversion to the extreme heat, and today the weather was scorching hot as well as humid. He was finding it hard to breath at times because of the temperature.

"All right all right, keep your shirt on," Solo groused, untying the scarf and tossing it to the bed. "Satisfied?" He didn't tell his partner he had another one in his backpack...

"Immensely, now we had better get going, the sun is starting to set," Illya paused for a second. "And I had not planned to take my shirt off, if you were wondering."

Napoleon shook his head, not even bothering to explain the colloquialism this time.

Illya handed over his ID card to Napoleon, and together both gold UNCLE cards were burned in a large crystal ashtray along with their passports, They kept only their false identity papers and Belgian passports that indicated they were businessmen and that was all they would carry, for all the good it would do. The rumors of indiscriminate killing told them no one was safe...

They made their way through the darkened streets of Leopoldville, ducking into the shadows when lorries drove by loaded with troops, and though there was a curfew, they had to risk it as they might not get a second chance to escape as the Simbas were slowly taking command of the city, a section at a time. They managed to secret themselves onto a truck, part of a supply convoy loaded with refugees leaving the city, supposedly heading to Katanga, or so they heard being said in French.

For once a language barrier existed as Illya did not speak any of the 242 dialects that existed among the more remote population centers in the Congo, though French was the official language of the country since its inception under Belgian rule, it was spoken mostly among the educated groups in the country, and not by the indigenous population.

There would no doubt be a gamut of checkpoints to get through even before they reached the outskirts of Leopoldville, and once getting out of the city, they'd stay with the lorry as long as the could, then take to hiking it through the more rugged, rainforest covered terrain.

It would be a tense and dangerous escape, having to avoid the rebels, government forces, as well as the wildlife.

The viciousness of this rebellion was not just politically motivated but was in part, driven by ethnic divisions, tribe against tribe. The fighting was widespread and brutal, with bodies scattered everywhere the two agents traveled, seeing innocent women and children murdered because they were of the wrong tribe. It had little to do with the political coup, and the upheaval with the government was merely an excuse to kill.

Nothing could be done...at least by two lone UNCLE agents.


	3. Jungle Jitters

  
                        
  
  
Napoleon and Illya hacked their way through the steamy rainforest, using their compass to guide them; the map was of some use but they had no points of reference and could only guess where they were at times. They needed to find local villages as landmarks simply to find food and supplies and once they learned which village it was, that would give them a sense of which direction to continue onwards.  
  
Of course they knew if they kept heading South West, they'd eventually, somehow reach the border of Katanga, but again, the issue of finding food supplies was foremost on their minds, and hungry bellies; otherwise they'd never survive the journey...

 

Living in the jungle and surviving on what it offered just wasn't enough. They couldn't use their limited ammunition for hunting, as they needed it for defense instead against predators both animal and human, but not to mention the gunfire could give away their position.

Illya had managed to capture one or two small monkeys with snares, and several times a snake was caught and cooked, but still, none of it was enough to sustain them.

The food supplies they had brought with them were long gone; nearly two weeks had now passed, and they were living off the land as best they could.

The few villages they found along the way provided them meager amounts of food they'd abscond with in the middle of the night. The only took a little, hardly enough to be noticed at times, as they had to be extremely careful doing this. If they let any villagers see them, their whereabouts could be reported to the soldiers and rebels who were swarming everywhere.

Tonight they feasted on _Kwanga_ , made from cassava, cooked and stored in banana leaves,  _Losa na Madesu-_  rice and beans, and for dessert... bananas. All the prepared food was eaten cold as they couldn't risk lighting a fire.

By a bit of luck they'd laid their hands on a small earthenware jar half filled with Palm wine made from the sap of a wild palm tree, fermented by natural yeasts, and with an alcohol content of between five and seven percent. It was just what they needed to help them relax, as they'd been on constant edge from the moment they left the hotel in Leopoldville.

That was the last time they'd been in contact with headquarters, and they hadn't even been able to speak with the Old Man. Radio silence was absolutely necessary, as their signals could give away their position.

Illya said nothing, but the knowledge that the Soviet Union was involved somehow in the political unrest most likely meant there were Russian troops and advisors, most likely along with them; high tech equipment as well. The Russian would most likel have devices to locate any sort of radio transmission...

Napoleon was sure that was bothering his partner. The American had his own jittery feelings, perhaps more akin to paranoia, though that was usually Illya's 'thing'. Thinking they were being trailed, though it was a gut instinct more than anything, he finally said something to his partner, and not surprisingly Illya's unique senses agreed with him.

"I have a bad feeling too. Something is lurking out there. "Illya said as they finally set up camp since it was nearing sunset. They decided against lighting a fire again that night, and hung their net hammocks, they, or rather illya had helped himself to in another village. He did leave a some francs to compensate for their loss, hiding the coins around the hut so the owners would discover them at a later time.

The trees offered them safety from most of the wild life...unless of course a leopard or a snake showed up.

"You stand guard first, Mr. Paranoid," Napoleon joked, pushing aside his own feelings.

"I was planning on it."

"Hey buddy I was only kidding, I'll take the first watch, you're pretty wiped out." Solo stared at his partner's pale face, looking gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes. They both were dirty and stinky, not having had a bath since they's left Léopoldvile, their hair was unkempt and beards unshaven.

"No more than you my friend. Get some rest, and I will wake you around... "Illya looked at his watch seeing droplets of moisture under the crystal. He gave it a tap to make sure it was working, and turned the crown, giving it a wind. " At two a.m." he yawned.

"You won't get an argument from me," Napoleon mumbled, having already closed his eyes. Illya was right, he was exhausted too. They'd kept communications with headquarters to zero, so that was working on their nerves, since there were no reports of what was really going on around the. If they made it to Katanga alive and across the border to Zambia, they'd be home free, as they could call for help once they arrived there.

That comforting thought allowed the senior agent to drift off into a deeper than usual sleep, well that and the fatigue, helped as well...


	4. Passing time

  
  
  
Illya lay in his hammock, listening to the sounds of the jungle, and not letting the night songs of the frogs make him drift off. Now and again there was the howl of a monkey, but suddenly the jungle grew ominously silent.

 

 

 

He sat up, his senses on overdrive when he heard the low rumbling growl of a big cat. Illya held out his gun, listening carefully. It was walking close by, but he daren't wake Napoleon, as his voice would make the predator aware of them. He listened as it walked slowly beneath them, but settled back down, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as the sounds of the beast faded away into the distance.

It reminded him of the time he'd been tied up below a stand in India, left there as bait for a tiger...if it had not been for that air headed woman whose name escaped him at the moment, rescuing him, he would have become a meal for sure. "What was her name?" He rubbed his temple, feeling a slight headache.

"Come on Kuryakin?" Suzanne, that was it, Suzanne de Serre, a French botanist, though she came across as a bit of a snob to him.  
Still she saved his life and that had softened his opinion of her at the time. Napoleon was, of course thinking with his libido, and it was one of the few times Illya became angered with his partner, as the American had taken a dismissive attitude towards him, it seemed due to Suzanne's presence...*

Illya sighed again, that was the past and needed to be put aside; he and Napoleon were both becoming testy and he was fighting those feelings, but being tired and hungry and just a little paranoid made that hard to do.

His ears were keeping a sharp guard on the sounds around them, it was too dark to really see anything, but still he let his mind drift to keep himself awake, anything from mathematical equations to poetry...and then it started to rain. He watched Napoleon roll over to his side, still asleep but resting his arm over his face to protect it from the rain.

There was nothing to shield them against it, and the two men were simply drenched, it wouldn't be the first time, nor the last. The rain at least made Illya feel a little cooler for the moment as the rivulets of water drench his hair and ran down his face. He blew away a drop of rain that had settled on the tip of his nose and swatted at a bug buzzing past his ear.

To pass the time, the Russian silently whispered a Rudyard Kipling poem to himself, one of the more famous ones...as it suddenly dawned on him how appropriate it was to their current situation."

_"If you can keep your head when all about you_  
_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;_  
_If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,_  
_But make allowance for their doubting too;_  
_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,_  
_Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,_  
_Or being hated, don't give way to hating,_  
_And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise."_

_"If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;_  
_If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;_  
_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster_  
_And treat those two imposters just the same;_  
_If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken_  
_Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,_  
_Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,_  
_And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;"_

Illys was unable to recall the rest of it, and that he found disturbing. He had an eidetic memory and could remember anything he'd read ever since he was a child. He had begun losing weight because of his metabolism and the lack of food, was no doubt affecting his ability to recall things.

Suddenly the rest of the poem came to him, making him smile as he continued to whisper it aloud.

_"If you can make one heap of all your winnings... And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,"_ he paused, faltering for a second... _"And lose, and start again at your beginnings._

_"And never breathe a word about your loss;_  
_If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew_  
_To serve your turn long after they are gone,_  
_And so hold on when there is nothing in you_  
_Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"_

_"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,_  
_Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,_  
_If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,_  
_If all men count with you, but none too much;_  
_If you can fill the unforgiving minute_  
_With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -_  
_Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,_  
_And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!"_

It was an uplifting verse, and one that helped counter his feelings of doom, and for a moment, he thought of his father Nicholaí, who'd taught him so much about survival when he was but a young child, and that made him smile. His confidence level felt stronger, just thinking of his papa. Perhaps they would make it out alive after all. He looked at his watch again, shocked that time had passed so quickly.

"Napoleon," he raised his voice, "it is time to wake up."

Solo took a deep breath, rubbing his face, giving himself a disgruntled look at being soaked. "I'm up, you all right pal."

"As best as can be expected under the circumstances. Now leave me be, I need my beauty rest," the Russian joked.

"You'll need to sleep for a year to take care of that," Napoleon retorted, as he drew his Special and rested it on his chest.

"Ha ha." Those were the last words Illya said, as he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

Solo settled in, trying to think of anything to keep himself awake; he could hear Illya snoring, louder than usual, most likely due to how tired he was. He knew his friend wasn't doing well, between the heat, and lack of nourishment and proper rest, it was all taking its toll on him. Hell it was taking it's toll on both of them...

Napoleon started naming the lists of women in his _little black book_ , and the memories associated with them, all bringing a satisfied smile to his lips. It was a surprisingly long list and it took him right through to sunrise.

He tried not to think about the odds of them actually making it out alive. They'd survived so many times before, but not in a situation quite like this. They were so cut off and alone. Napoleon was concerned about his partner, but still the optimist in him said Illya could do it. The Russian though skinny and small, was feisty and had the inner strength...sort of the heart of a giant.

Solo had no doubt that between the two of them, they'd make it out and live to tell the tale...they had to. They couldn't be meant to leave this world this way.

The jungle was beginning to awaken, with howler monkeys calling out loudly to each other and announcing the dawn, along with a multitude of birds and other creatures, as well as lots of buzzing mosquitos.

"Come on Illya," Napoleon called, slapping a mosquito that had landed on his neck. "time to rise and shine Mister personality."

.

* ref "The Tigers are coming Affair" Season 2 episode 8


	5. A little bit of civilization

  
  
  
"Did you sleep all right chum?" Napoleon asked.  
  
The blond raised his head, bleary-eyed. "Hardly," he replied, slowly lowering himself down to the ground from his hammock with a soft thud. "Excuse me while I go take a piss."  
  
Napoleon called out to him as he disappeared into the brush." Do you think we can risk a fire, I really need some caffeine, and we need to put something in our stomachs."  
  
They had garnered a supply of coffee during their last village raid, along with a small aluminum pot.  
  
"I suggest a very small one," Illya said, reappearing as he zipped up his fly. He reached out to a large curled up leaf filled with water and used it to wash his hands.  
  
"Do we have any food left, I am starving?"  
  
 _"Tovarisch_ , you're always starving," Napoleon quipped, tossing him a piece of fruit that was the last of their supplies, along with the coffee.  
  
Napoleon had a fire going in no time, setting the pot with the ground coffee beans in the bottom of it, and once it was boiled and the coffee made, he let it settle before pouring it into their aluminum cups.  
  
They drank in silence, letting the brew help fill their hungry bellies and once done, they spread out their map, checking their approximate location and searching for the nearest village . Both of them knew they needed more food, otherwise they'd be too weak to make it to the border. Living off the land wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and hence raiding the local villages became a necessity.  
  
Wearily gathered their backpacks after filling them with their treasured supplies. Napoleon led the way, with a pair of binoculars draped around his neck. According to the compass, they were heading South-Southwest, with the map indicating a possible village lying another 5 km or so away. He held the map in his hands, studying it as he walked a surprisingly clear path and turned to say something to Illya just as the Russian yelled to him  
  
"Look out!'  
  
It was too late, as Solo took his next step, landing backwards into a small river, taking the map with him. The current was surprisingly strong and he grabbed a branch that was hanging down into the water, but the map disappeared in the water as he held on, not wanting to join it.l  
  
Illya, tossing his backpack aside, waded out, grabbed by the Napoleon hand, pulling him from the branch and up to dry land; the two of them lay there gasping for air on the shore line as the effort took a lot out of them. They remained there to recover, saying nothing and finally hiked themselves up, continuing on their wearisome trek.  
  
The Russian was quieter than usual as he led the way this time, hacking at the vines with the machete, clearing a path for them as the once clear way had become overgrown again. He'd stopped for a moment, stripping off his khaki shirt, down to his green tee-shirt and even that was soaked with perspiration along with his blond hair being plastered down wet to his scalp.     
  
He shook his head. seeing that his partner seemed as comfortable as a Russian bear in a blizzard, not breaking a sweat at all. He questioned that as being unfair.  
  
"That's because I'm hot-blooded, unlike you," Solo replied matter of factly.  
  
Illya pursed his lips, not responding as he continued to hack away with the thick brush.  
  
 _"Valí otsjúda_ piss off,_ " he mumbled under his breath in Russian.  
  
 _"Ni figá sebé_ gosh_...I heard that Mr. Kuryakin, and such language," Napoleon laughed.  
  
"You want to hear language...I can give you  _language._  Do not get me started Napoleon."  
  
"My we are cranky today aren't we."  
  
 _"Poshël ty!_ " Illya cursed, showing even more annoyance at his partner's flippant attitude. Normally such things wouldn't phase him in the least, but his very long fuse had become quite short.  
  
His partner's testiness only made Napoleon feel like he wanted to laugh more, but he stopped himself, realizing after seeing how flushed and soaked with perspiration Illya was; it dawned on him that the Russian was suffering and took an empathetic tone with him. "I promise  _tovarisch,_  when we find civilization, you'll get the first shower, and I'll buy you a tall cold drink."  
  
"I can hardly think that far into the future," Illya's voice seemed calmer now.  
  
"This is crazy,"Solo said as he now had to cut through the jungle growth. "You would think they're be some sort of trail we could find to follow."  
  
"There would have been had you not fallen into that river and lost our only map," Illya responded, that was the only thing dry about him. 

"Ah the blame game is it tovarisch? And who's fault was it that I fell into the river?"  
  
"Fine, that is right, it is always my fault, I am sorry. I did not see the precipice until it was too late. I did try to warn you."  
  
"Fat lot of good it did."  
  
"Napoleon, I apologized, did I not, though it really was not my doing. Besides, you should have watched where you were going." Kuryakin snapped at him.  
  
The American stopped, holding his hand up to silence his partner. "Did you hear that...voices in that direction." He pointed to the right, waving Illya to follow. Both men drew their weapons from their shoulder holsters, not knowing what they'd find.  
  
They'd stumbled upon a primitive dirt road cut through the forest, with a group of men walking along it, and from the looks of them...they were Simba as they were armed with a variety of rifles from American made, Russian, as well as others unidentifiable. Staying out of sight along the tree line, the agents ducked quickly when they'd heard the roar of an engine coming near.  
  
They peeked out from behind a banana tree, using its large leaves as cover. Studying at one of the trucks as it passed; Napoleon could see a look of disappointment in his partner's normally deadpan face.  
  
"What's wrong Illya?"  
  
"The lorry that just went by...it was carrying Russian soldiers." He lowered his head, trying to hide his crestfallen expression.  
  
"I know," Solo said, "I understand." He quoted Flaubert, trying to help, ' _Il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles: la dorure en reste aux mains_never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers."W_ ho knows, maybe their presence here might help control some of the insanity?"  
  
Illya looked at him, his blue eyes focusing hard on Napoleon's brown ones.  
  
"Thank you for being the voice of reason. You are ever the optimist, are you not?" He tried to smile, in spite of knowing his Russian compatriots were here to stir things up in favor of the Soviet Union.  
  
"Hey, I do my best partner, and I know I can be a bit of a jerk at times...sorry."  
  
After the convoy and Simba had long disappeared down the road, Napoleon and Illya continued on their course, slow going while they still following the road while staying hidden the trees, and in hopes it would lead them to civilization. The day was long and it began to rain again, and still no village in sight.  
  
They made camp before sundown, with no fire again and no food. The only thing to barely assuage their hunger was water. This time they set up their hammocks together high above the ground, draping a piece of canvas over them to try and make their nights sleep just a little more comfortable, if that was at all possible.  
  
They were both bone-weary and knew neither of them were up to standing guard. The weather though uncomfortable at least offered them a modicum of protection as the odds were low of anyone being out and about in the ensuing downpours.  
  
They quickly set up their hammocks, draping the canvas to cover themselves again, and soon as they were under it; they were both sound asleep, though it was not completely restful. An UNCLE agent never slept that soundly; their training just wouldn't permit it...  
  
They woke to the morning sounds of the rainforest, but a sense of near panic drove them down from their hammocks, weapons drawn, as they both heard nearby voices.  
  
Napoleon stood guard, as Illya broke camp, quickly storing their precious hammocks and the canvas.  
  
They ducked low into the brush, listening carefully as the voices, speaking a native dialect, passed them by. Risking a peek, Napoleon looked out at them, seeing they were not soldiers or rebel from the looks of them, as they weren't carrying any firearms.  
  
Solo signalled for his partner to follow after him, as they stayed at a distance behind the group of men, hoping they might lead them to a village.  
  
Their instincts were right as they came to an opening in the forest, revealing a fair-sized  _kraal_ , a typical African village of huts, enclosed by a fence of thorn bushes.  
  
Staying back among the safety of the trees; they watched as the villagers went on about their business and so far there was no sign of any military presence or the Simba.  
  
If they played their cards right, they'd be able to sneak into the village and get more food and supplies. Illya had the idea of causing a distraction as there was a smaller kraal being used as an enclosure for the village cattle...if they were to escape, that would perhaps give a window of opportunity to get inside and get whatever they could and out without being seen.


	6. I think we are dead men

                
  
  
It was just before sunset when they approached the kraal protecting the village's herd of cattle and as Napoleon and Illya began pulling away part of the thorny wall of sticks and branches protecting them, the beasts began to moo nervously.

"Hurry,"Illya whispered, that noise may bring the villagers sooner than we want."

Once the opening was made wide enough in the enclosure, the two agents threw stones at the small herd, startling them into stampeding out through their newly made way of escape.

The gates to the village opened and large group of men came running, hearing the panicked animals, thinking they were being attacked by a lion in the twilight.

 

The agents slipped headed inside the village, ducking back behind the huts and keeping out of view from the women and the elderly men who stood in the village center, voicing their concerns over the cattle.

Napoleon and Illya slipped into one of larger huts, ensuring it was empty before they did so. The Solo luck was with them as they'd hit the jackpot, finding tins of food, fresh fruit, rice and smoked meats hanging from the ceiling,

Illya grabbed a burlap sack he found laying to the side, and the two agents filled it as much as they dared without the loss being noticed. They held their breath, as they turned to exit the hut when an older woman and a child stepped through the door.

She let out a blood curdling scream, as did the frightened child.

Napoleon desperately tried speaking French to her " _N'ayez pas peur, s'il vous plaît? Nous avons faim et nous allons vous payer pour la nourriture_don't be afraid, please? We are hungry, and we'll pay you for the food."_

It did no good as she turned and ran, calling out, presumably for help as she dragged the crying child with her.

Napoleon and Illya dashed out the door, still hanging onto their supplies, but came to a dead stop when they were confronted with a half dozen men wielding machetes, spears and several old carbine rifles.

The agents dropped the burlap bag between them, placing their interlocked hands on top of their heads and were immediately relieved of their weapons. Their hands were bound behind their backs as they were carted off to another hut. There they were shoved inside to the dirt floor, while the villagers seemed to be arguing amongst themselves outside of the hut.

"For once I need your linguistic skills, and you let me down," Napoleon half joked.

"Sorry, I am not a world almanac of languages, though at times you seem to think I am,' Illya jabbed back at him, while he struggled with his bindings. "This plan did not go as well as hoped."

"Oh and I suppose you're trying to blame me?

"No Napoleon, there is no finger-pointing on my part," Illya sighed.

"Speaking of finger pointing...well sort of? How are you doing on your ropes?" Napoleon asked.

"They are becoming looser. I should be out of them shortly, and you?"

"Mine are as tight as a boa constrictor."

"Once I am free..." Illya silenced himself as several of the men returned, abruptly pulling he and Napoleon up from the floor.

"Whoa, take it easy there big guy!" The American protested for all the good it did.

"You come wit us. Take you Simba. They fix you good," one of them said in broken English.

"Peachy," Napoleon mumbled.

"Yes, out of the frying pan and into the flames," Illya quipped.

"Fire chum, that's out of the frying pan into the fire."

"Are not flames fire?"

"You know what, you're right," Napoleon's tone of voice was apologetic. Given their circumstances, what was the point of bothering his partner about semantics.

They were dragged outside and pushed into a dilapidated jeep and Illya's eyes met his partner's, as they were filled with concern. Napoleon's eyes, however, were looking ever confident.

"Don't worry  _tovarisch_ , we'll get out of this. Stop being so worried."

"I cannot help it, worrying is my job. It is in my nature. You are interminably optimistic, and that I do not understand. Napoleon, I think we are going to die."

"Hey just because I'm being optimistic doesn't mean that thought hasn't crossed my mind." He tried to shrug.

"Quiet!" Their guard brandished Napoleon's Special, waving it at them.

"We are dead men," Illya mouthed, nodding his head and giving his friend that 'I told you so' look...


	7. Oh boy...

  
                  

  
  
The jeep was driven as if a wild man were at the wheel, travelling at breakneck speed on primitive dirt roads made uneven with holes, roots and rocks, with only the headlights to show him the way.  
  
As they hit a particularly bad hole the jeep bounced violently into the air and landed hard.  
  
"I think I lost a kidney on that one," Napoleon murmured.  
  
"I lost a kidney and my spleen several miles back,"Illya retorted.  
  
"Always have to try and outdo me don't you? Well I'll see that spleen and raise you a liver..."

 

The jeep pulled to a sudden stop, nearly toppling the two of them, and the still bound agents were ordered out and made to sit, flat-legged on the ground. Apparently the jeep had flat...

There they waited while the men, again, argued before finally setting about the task of changing the tire. A few frustrating minutes later, they grabbed Illya, undid his bonds and ordered him in broken English to change the tire. All the while a gun barrel was pointed to Napoleon's head.

It took Illya about a half hour to complete the task, given he was tired, malnourished and hadn't had any water since that morning. His shirt was soaked in perspiration when he finally received some help from one of the men as he struggled with the tire-iron, trying to loosen the near rusty lugs.

Once the task was completer, and before they tied his hands again, Kuryakin signalled to them with a gesture, asking for water.

They laughed at him, but one of the men took pity and handed Illya his old, dented canteen that looked like it was left over from the African campaigns of World War II. The Russian downed a long swig, and kneeling beside his partner, he helped him to take a drink as well.

"Thanks tovarisch," Napoleon uttered.

_"Tovarisch?_ " The man who was obviously the leader repeated, it had some meaning to him, no doubt, and more arguing among them men began. The agents were ushered back into the jeep and their journey into the night continued.

In spite of the rough roads, Illya managed to nod off to sleep, though Napoleon wasn't the least bit surprised, knowing how spent he was. He could fall asleep anywhere at the drop of a hat, but his was the sleep of exhaustion. Napoleon could have used some shuteye, but better one of them stay awake, but as hard as he fought it, sleep eventually overcame him as well.

Steam rose from the rainforest as the burning hot sun rose above the canopy. Illya finally woke, feeling barely rested, and his mouth felt like an army had marched through it. He looked out, seeing what might be a larger village in the distance, and nudged Napoleon awake.

The American blinked a few times to clear his vision. "What, daylight already? Time flies when you're having fun."

"I think we may have arrived at our destination." He pointed with a sideways nod of his head.

This was no village, it was a substantial town, and as soon as they drove through it they saw signs in French indicating it was Brazzaville. They were closer to the northern border of Katanga than they realized, though they were still north of the Congo river.

The town was divided into districts, with the European district the center and the African sections of Poto-Poto, Bacongo, and Makélékélé on the outskirts.

From the looks of it, Brazzaville had become a staging ground for the rebel forces, as there were a multitude of military vehicles everywhere, but it was obvious they were not manned by any anti-government military forces. There were men in military fatigues, though they seemed to hardly be the ones in charge. The agents saw more raggle-taggle men than anything, not even dressed in uniforms, but carrying military issue weapons.

The jeep slowed, navigating among the throngs of people on the streets, and once in a while a gunshot was heard, followed by screams and another rifle repeat.

There was no doubt to the UNCLE agents that people were being executed, and they were most likely on their way to their deaths as well. They had no identification on them now, no papers or fake passports, nothing. It was all left back with their other supplies, hidden in the jungle when they'd gone to the village to steal food.

They were taken to the outskirts of the southern part of the town to the headquarters of the Simba rebels who controlled the area. It seemed nothing but a conglomeration of worn tents and ramshackled lean-tos, though one section of the camp had military tents set up that were well kept and looked newer and better organized than the rest.

The jeep pulled to a halt in front of one of the shelters, it was the only one with guards standing at its open flaps.

Several men came out, dressed in khaki green uniforms and sporting Berets. They spoke to the driver of the jeep, again arguments ensued, and finally Napoleon and Illya were dragged out of the vehicle. They were marched at gunpoint to the back of the main tent, and there made to kneel, along with dozens of other prisoners, both men and women and all of whom were black.

The agents remained there in the sweltering heat as the other prisoners moaned, wept and some passed out. Those who dropped from exhaustion were instantly shot in the head, and that elicited more sounds of fear from the others.

Though the agents had no idea what one of the soldiers was saying, his loud shouts at those kneeling on the ground definitely had a threatening tone.

He walked up and down the rows of prisoners, selecting one at random and dragging him into the tent, apparently to be questioned. Raised voices could be heard from within, and even though Solo and Kuryakin couldn't understand the language, they knew the sound of a voice when someone was pleading for their life.


	8. Out of the frying pan

 

              

  
  
Sweat was pouring down both Napoleon and Illyas faces from the heat of the midday sun as mercilrssly it beat down on them , adding to that was the excruciating pain shooting up from their knees, for having forced to kneel for so long.

They weren't the only ones suffering as the other prisoners lined up around them were in bad shape as well.

Solo watched as his partner began to sway, seeing the Russian was close to passing out.

 

The last thing Illya and Napoleon as well needed was draw any further attention to themselves. The fact the pale blond Russian was becoming unsteady made would make him stand out even more among the sea of dark faces that surrounded him. The American feared that once he keeled over and hit the ground, someone would walk over with a pistol and arbitrarily execute his partner without thinking twice about it.

It had been a long time since Solo had seen such dispassionate and wanton disregard for human life, and it had nothing to do with this so-called revolution. It was killing for the sake of killing, and murdering innocents to suit their executioners sadistic and self-righteous moods.

"Illya," Napoleon tried whispering to him, but his voice had no effect on the man. It was another sound that startled the Russian to awareness, and that was the blood curdling scream of a woman who was being dragged by her hair from the line prisoners. Guards pulled her into the nearby tent and closed the flaps after them.

There was complete silence, no sound coming from within the tent as there had been when other prisoners were taken there. No screams or pleading, and no gunshots. The walls of the tent began to shake with the beginnings of some sort of movement inside. More men went into it, and that's when grunts and moans became audible.

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, knowing the girl was being raped. One by one the soldiers exited the tent, at least a dozen of them, adjusting their belts and zipping up their flies as they walked away.

She was dragged outside again, this time completely naked, and was tossed to the ground as the men spat on her, and kicked at her, yelling at her and seemingly egging her on.

The agents guessed the men were hurling nasty names at her with each kick. The woman tried desperately to crawl away in the dirt and finally pulled herself up staggering in defiance. Her tormentors broke out into raucous laughter as she turned and ran towards the forest, but there was a hesitation on her part when she heard a rifle being cocked, as she half expected to be shot in the back.

For some reason the soldiers let her go...

"At least she's alive," Napoleon whispered.

"For what, her life is as good as over. No man will have her and who knows what diseases they have transmitted to her. If she lives, it will be as an outcast and she will have no one to care for her."

Napoleon was about to rebut that when one of the guards stepped in front of him. "You!" He bellowed, pulling Solo up to his feet with a violent tug. Napoleon tried resisting, and was cuffed in the face, splitting his lower lip as it was dry from lack of water.

They shoved him toward the tent just as a jeep pulled up, stopping abruptly beside them.

A white man in a military uniform...a Russian uniform stepped out of the passenger seat, eyeing Solo, and the rest of the prisoners, pausing to stare at Illya for a moment.

That was when Kuryakin sprang to life as he called out to the officer, speaking Russian.

_"Tovarishch Leytenant ! Rasskazhite eti duraki osvoboditʹ menya i moyego kompanʹona_Comrade Lieutenant! Tell these idiots to release me and my companion."_

That drew the junior officers immediate attention.

_"A kto ty takoy, chtoby prikazyvatʹ mne bytʹ vokrug_and who are you to order me around?_ " He snarled at the blond, grabbing his chin and yanking it up to a painful position.

"I am a member of Soviet Military Intelligence and your superior officer. Capitan Illya Kuryakin," he barked back at him..

The Lieutenant laughed in his face.

"You doubt me  _little man_?" This time Kuryakin sneered with a feral smile, in spite of the fact when he was pulled to his feet by the soldier, the man towered over him.

"Prove it to me... _little man,_ " the Lieutenant parroted back the insult.

"You know we do not carry any sort of identification that could give us away."

Illya squared his shoulders, and confidently standing to his full height, he began to spout names of members of the  _Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye,_  as well as a quick description of the building that housed it at  _Kodinka_  airfield. They were details that only one who had been inside the  _'Aquarium_ ' could know, and he crossed his fingers, hoping the man had somehow been there to be briefed for this African assignment.

The Lieutenant's face paled, and he stiffened at what Illya had said. Apparent the ploy was working.

"I beg your pardon Capitan Kuryakin, I had no idea GRU would be here, if I had..."

"That would not be information you would be privy to. GRU tells no one of their comings and goings. Now, stop your groveling and get my hands untied, as well as Capitan Badenov!"

"Yes, immediately Comrade Capitan. and my apologies." He saluted, and pulled a blade from its sheath on his belt and slit the ropes bound around Illya and Napoleon's wrists.

Illya stumbled but regained his balance as he rubbed his raw skin, and quickly held a finger in front of his lips signalling for Napoleon to remain silent.

_"Kak tebya zovut Leytenant_what is your name Lieutenant?_ "

"Vladimir Medvdev Comrade Capitan." He snapped to, again giving the agents a sharp salute.

"Get us water," Illya softened his tone, "And we need a change of clothing, perhaps uniforms if you will, since being dressed in civilian clothing got us into this mess in the first place. And I want these prisoners here freed immediately," he gestured towards the people still lined up behind them. "This is no way to conduct a revolution, abusing innocent civilians because they are from the wrong ethnic tribe."

"But Capitan we are not supposed to interfere..."

Illya shouted at the man. " _Kak ty smeyeshʹ vopros moye slovo_how dare you question me_ now do as I say or you will be reported to Directorate. I hear gulags are particularly frigid at the moment_."

Lieutenant Medvedev's face flushed red with embarrassment and the look of fear filled his eyes.

"I will take care of it immediately, Comrade Capitan."

They were led to a nearby tent and inside there some Russian military gear was stowed. It was apparently the Lieutenant's quarters and there he left them, telling them to make themselves comfortable.

"That was some move," Napoleon sighed."And by the way, Captain Badenov, as in  _Boris Badenov_...a cartoon character, _seriously_?"

"What, you do not like it  _Comrade Boris?_  "Illya smirked, putting on a heavy Russian accent. "At least I gave you a rank of Captain...and yes, it was risky but no more than the possibility of us being executed."

"Why did you want me to be quiet, there's no way you forgot that I speak a fair amount of Russian?"

"Napoleon, your Russian is passable but your accent is slightly off," Illya frowned.

"Oh come on with the insults again?"

"I am not trying to offend you, you have a mixed dialect, enough to give away that you are not a native speaker, that is all."

Napoleon's perceived insult gave way to his partner's logic. "So now that we're out of the frying pan chum, what did you have in mind... _tovarisch_?"


	9. On the road again

          

  
Lieutenant Medvedev returned with the requested clothing water and food that was the Soviet equivalent to K-rations. It was nothing fancy but it was palatable.  
  
"Better than the slop these natives eat," he remarked to Illya and Napoleon as he held up a khaki shirt and pants, eyeing Solo.  
  
"These should fit you Comrade Capitan Badenov," he said, handing them over.  
  
" _Da, spacibo,_ " Napoleon replied.

_"Dobro pozhalovatʹ. YA ostavlyu vas na nekotoroye vremya_you are welcome. I will leave you for the time being._ " He saluted and disappeared from the tent.

"Tsk," Illya clicked his tongue. "Did I ask you not to speak Napoleon...why did you take that risk?"

"I figured he'd be a little suspicious if I didn't at least mutter something.  _Da_  and  _spacibo_  are hardly earth shattering," he shrugged as he stripped away his soiled clothing.

"You were lucky your pronunciation was acceptable," Illya sneered.

"Enough with the comments about my accent. I'm getting tired of it. You know you can be a little pompous at times..." Napoleon snapped at him.

The Russian closed his eyes, fighting back a seething remark. "I will not argue with you now, as we need to formulate a plan for getting out of here and to Katanga."

"Oh, so you don't have a plan  _Mister Know-it-all_?"

"No I do not, and please, stop the childish name calling."

"I will if you knock off nitpicking about my language skills."

"Fine, consider it done," Illya spoke in a hushed tone, but his voice was filled with annoyance. "Now why do you not concentrate on a strategy, since that is your  _forté._ " Illya removed his clothing, putting on the trousers and shirt brought by Medvedev.

Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair. "Why are we fighting, this is ridiculous. You're right, my accent isn't the best."

Illya looked at his partner with regret in his eyes. "And you are not childish my friend. I think we have been stretched to our limits and have become overly sensitive because of it."

Illya offered his partner his hand. Napoleon hesitated, throwing the Russian off for a second, then accepted it with wide smile. "Tell you what  _tovarisch_ ; I think I've come up with a plan."

"I am all ears," Illya returned his partner's grin.

When Lieutenant Medvedev , Illya informed him they needed transportation to the border of Katanga as they had a vital mission to complete, regarding Patrice Lumumba. He requested food supplies, water and weapons to replace those that had been confiscated when they'd been captured. Illya knew their communicators were long gone, and dared not mention them.

The Soviet troops here had nothing useful equipment-wise that Illya could even rig to get onto an UNCLE network, so it was not even worth looking around. When and if they managed their escape, both agents knew a landline telephone would be their only means of communication with headquarters in Egypt.

Medvedev immediately ordered a jeep and driver, along with the supplies and told Capitan Kuryakin and Capitan Badenov he would go with them to the border.

Illya tried insisting it wasn't necessary, but his efforts failed.

"I cannot in good conscience let you travel unprotected, considering the problems you had with these animals, the Simba."

Medvedev again disappeared momentarily from the tent.

"I hope your plan works Napoleon." Illya whispered.

"Me too chum. The Lieutenant's presence will complicate matters, but I think we'll manage," he winked at his partner.

Medvedev returned fifteen minutes later with everything prepared for them. He handed the agents a pair of Russian tokarov pistols that were promptly tucked in the waistbands of their trousers. Together they stepped out into the bright sunlight, shielding their eyes until they adjusted, before climbing into the waiting jeep.

Minutes later it was started and they were off, hopefully to their freedom, though the trek across Katanga to the border of neighboring Rhodesia would still not be an easy one.

Medvedev carried a map with him and after nearly an hours drive he called for the driver to halt.

"There," he pointed, that is the border to Katanga just over the ridge. You will have to be careful as I have been told there are Belgian troops patrolling the border."

"No doubt," Napoleon spoke in English, pointing his weapon at Medvedev, and Illya doing the same to the driver.

"Sorry Lieutenant, but you've been had, next time I would imagine you won't be as quick to trust a stranger. Better not tell your superiors of this, otherwise it's to the gulag for you...for sure." Solo relieved the two men of their sidearms, and karate chopped them into unconsciousness.

"I think he did not even understand you...and did you have to be so melodramatic?" Illya asked, as he took one of the extra pistols from his partner.

"Hey my plan worked didn't it?" Napoleon made a face at him.

Kuryakin lifted the Kalishnikov rifle sitting in the front of the jeep and balanced it in his hands. "I miss the feel of these."

"Getting sentimental about a gun?" Solo quipped. "Scratch that, I know about you and guns. Is it really a good time to be getting...ahem, horny? * I mean even my libido has been shut down."

"Napoleon, I am not thinking of sex, and I find it hard to believe that your lib... oh never mind," Illya gave in for once as he wasn't feeling up to any further discussion at the moment.

The agents dumped the Russians alongside the road, and after relieving Medvedev of the map, they proceeded on towards the border and the next hurdle to cross, the Belgian troops. The fact they were dressed in Soviet uniforms, carrying Soviet weapons as well as driving in a Soviet jeep, was problematic, to say the least.

Illya took a swig from his canteen, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He was feeling worse than he wanted to admit and opted to let his partner drive, as long as they stuck to the crude road, there was no way he'd get them lost.

He refrained from warning Napoleon about that, as the bickering and jabs had to stop, though it was being driven by tension and physical exhaustion, now with hope looming on the horizon, both their moods improved.

They'd driven a few miles along the road when the trees to the left of them began to shake violently. Napoleon slowed the jeep, bringing it to a halt as a large bull elephant emerged in front of them.

It looked directly at the jeep, taking some quick steps in a charge but stopped. Napoleon grabbed the rifle, raising it and aiming out the window at the immense creature.

"No," Illya spoke softly, using his hand to lower the rifle. "He will not charge, he is just letting us know he is here."

"That's sort of hard to miss..." Napoleon replied.

After staring at the agents and their jeep, the elephant raised his trunk, trumpeting loudly, seemingly a call to his herd. Several females with calves lumbered out into the open, crossing the road and disappearing back into the rainforest on the other side. The bull bellowed again, flapping his large ears, and let out a loud huff before followed his herd, leaving the road clear.

          

  
"Now how did you know he'd do that?" Napoleon sighed with relief.  


"He was issuing a challenge, and if we did not respond, his dominance would be maintained. We did not counter with a challenge and so it was then he deemed it safe to call to his females. That is part of the herd mentality with many mammals."

Once the elephants passed, Napoleon put the jeep into drive, heading out again. They began to see more people walking along the road, and as they neared the border , there were now multitudes of refugees in front of them...young, old and many infirmed. It broke their hearts to see them.

"We can help a few of them," Napoleon said, stopping the jeep again. He gestured for a woman with two small babies and an elderly woman carrying another child to seat themselves in the jeep. At first they hesitated, probably because of the uniforms, but a little boy stepped up to Solo, raising his arms bravely to be lifted into the vehicle.

"Ally-oop," Napoleon smiled, as he hefted the child into his arms. By the time they were done, they had a eight children and adults crammed in with them.

When they finally reached the Kantanga-Rhodesia border, there was a contingent of Belgian soldiers covering a checkpoint there. When the Russian jeep was spotted and they way Napoleon and Illya were dressed, they were stopped, and the two were pulled into an interrogation shack.

At least there was no language barrier here as between Illya and Napoleon, they could both speak French and Illya Dutch.

The officer looked them over as they sat in plain wooden chairs under armed guard, he studied them before he finally speaking.

 _"Bent u Russische deserteurs_are you Russian deserters?"_

 _"Nee, we zijn agenten voor een organisatie genaamd UNCLE."_ Illya responded in Dutch. _"We werden gevangen in het conflict in Congo en hebben geprobeerd om te ontsnappen_no, we are agents for an organization called U.N.C.L.E. We were caught in the conflict in the Congo and have been trying to escape."_

"Where is your identification then?"

"Umm, it was taken from us when we were captured by rebel Simbas."

"Oh how very convenient. I think perhaps you are lying to me, though you admit to being spies."

"I said no such thing," Illya hedged.

"You name the organization UNCLE, if you do work for them, then you are indeed spies, and will be held as such, however, the fact that you are dressed in Soviet uniforms, carrying Tokarov pistols and a Kalishnikov rifle and driving a Soviet Military vehicle, makes me think you are Russian spies, perhaps. Either way you are lying to me. Take them away to the stockade," the Colonel abruptly ordered, leaving them to his guards.

.

* ref to "Happiness is a Warm Gun" https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8635012/1/Happiness-is


	10. Maggie

                     

"But we're on your side!" Napoleon growled in French and as the guard grabbed him by the arm, he pulled away. "No, you're making a mistake." A second later Solo's elbow was rammed into the man's gut, and as he bent forward Illya slammed him in the chin with an uppercut. The guard went flying to the floor, and was out cold.

"You put on his uniform chum, it looks like a better fit for you." Napoleon picked up the handgun from the floor hiding it under his shirt.

The Russian stripped the guard of his clothing and quickly dressed himself, pulling the blue beret over his blond hair and promptly pointed the guards rifle at his partner's back.

"After you," he smiled.

Napoleon led the way through the door with his hands raised in the air, with Illya following after him. They walked behind the shed, eyeing the nearby treeline and made a quick dash for it, disappearing into the lush green cover.

They kept running, dodging trees and ducking through the brush until they finally stopped to catch their breath.

"Well here we go again, no water, food or supplies and we still need to get across the north of Katanga, except now we'll have the Belgian army coming after us," Napoleon said.

Illya was gasping heavily, having trouble catching his breath. "I have an idea. Wait here and stay out of sight," he whispered as he turned to go back.

"What are you doing?"

"We need our supplies, and will not make it to Northern Rhodesia without them." Kuryakin left his partner and sauntered to back to where the jeep was parked, with no one standing near it, he made a quick decision and a change of plans. As their supplies were intact; only the weapons were gone; he climbed into the drivers seat, starting the engine.

The fact that he was dressed in a Belgian military uniform made no one pay him any mind, and he slowly pulled down the road moving along with the throngs of refugees surrounding him.

He stopped, giving a wave and Napoleon ran from his hiding place, hopping into the passenger seat. With it being a covered vehicle and the way Illya was dressed, they were virtually invisible for the moment.

"Slick," the American smiled.

"I can be at times," the Russian grinned.

It was several miles before the groups of refugees began to thin out, and once past them, Illya was able to really give it the gas, driving down the road confidently.  If they were stopped by any Belgian troops, the story would be that he was escorting a Russian deserter to be interrogated...now if they asked where, that would be a slight problem.

Napoleon was of a more optimistic mind.

"I think they've got enough on their hands with the thousands of refugees swarming into the province, my bet is we'll be the last thing on their minds.

"Let us hope so." Illya's head was pounding with a headache and the exertion was making his chest tight, and he assumed it was the heat that was affecting his breathing.

"Now pull over chum and lets take on some passengers again, as least we can do some good."

They stopped along the side of the road, helping a few people into the back of the jeep, infirmed, women, young children and an infant, that Solo cradled in his lap. The baby looked up at him with wide brown eyes, it didn't cry at all. That's what he noticed about all the children...fear had taken their voices as well as hunger.

They travelled for a fair distance when there was a sudden bang, everyone ducked including the UNCLE agents, thinking it was gunfire, when it was in fact a blown tire, and as the fates would have it, the spare was flat as well, with an unnoticed bullet hole in it.

They helped their passengers from the jeep and the agents gathered up what supplies they could carry. Illya slung the rifle over his shoulder, bearing the weight of it, along with a backpack filled with their supplies. Their canteens were hooked to their belts, and before starting off on foot, Napoleon looked to the Russian, who seemed unsteady on his feet.

Without telling him, Napoleon had transferred some of the supplies to his pack, reducing his partner's load. No doubt Illya noticed it, but said nothing.

Together, they joined of refugees moving along at a snail's pace as they followed the road toward the border Kantanga shared with Northern Rhodesia.

As tired as they were, both Napoleon and Illya would periodically lift a struggling child into their arms and help carry them part of the way. Some of them were starving, with their little bellies distended and their hair having lightened from malnutrition.

Half their supplies were given to the equally as hungry mothers to help ease the suffering of them and their children, though it seemed it was only prolonging their eventual deaths.

It took several days to reach the border on foot and when they arrived, the refugees swarming there were even more than they'd seen crossing Katanga.

They surprisingly made it across, despite how they were dressed, as the border guards were simply overwhelmed by the sea of humanity that had converged there and once on the other side, they were all directed to a nearby refugee camp.

They were spotted by and aide worker and were ushered towards what looked like a staging tent and they both thought it odd to be pushed to the head of the line. It dawned on them they were receiving special treatment because they were white. There were other Caucasians present as well who seemed to be taken care of more quickly. That did not sit well at all with the Russian and the American.

Thought they were physically worn, there was no need for medical care, and the two agents opted to head to a tent that had been set up as a sort of soup kitchen.

A pretty young woman, dressed neatly in a soft looking floral dress, wearing a white apron tied around her waist stepped out from behind the distribution the endless line; she carried with her two large bowls of soup, along with slices of bread. She stopped in front of them handing them the food.

"You two look like you have been through bloody hell," she spoke with a slight British accent. "Sorry no spoons, so you'll just have to drink from the bowls."

"Thank you, yes we've been through hell and back," Napoleon said, and in spite of his weariness, he flashed her his best smile."And you are?"

"Oh, sorry. My name is Margaret...Maggie Kingsford."

"Anthony Schoonovar," Napoleon lied," and my quiet friend here is Edwin Rosbrük, we're businessmen and were caught up in the coup in the Congo and were unable to get onto the emergency evacuation flights out of Leopoldville..."

"Schoonovar, that's Dutch but you sound American," Maggie pointed out.

"I am, though Eddie here is from Holland."

_"Ik ben blij u te ontmoeten_I am pleased to meet you,"_  Illya said in Dutch.

_"Blij om ook ontmoeten_pleased to meet you as well,_ " she held out her hand to him.

Illya clasped it, shaking her hand in reply. "I do speak the English," he said to her, but his face remained expressionless.

"Good Lord, you've traveled all the way from Leopoldville, no wonder you two look terrible. You poor things. You're coming home to my family's place, we can get some proper food into you and get you out of those uniforms, one is Belgian and the other is Russian from the look of them? How did you get them...no, maybe I don't want to know that right now, we'll save that as a story for later over dinner perhaps."

"You wouldn't happen to have a telephone at your house would you?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes we do, but it's not working," she apologized.

"Shame, I'd like to contact my Uncle, who's the head of our company and let him know we're all right...say what's the date?"

When Maggie told Napoleon, he was mildly surprised, as he'd lost track of the time; he and Illya been on the run for over six weeks."

"Sorry, none of our family has the know how to fix the telephone, and with all the unrest in the area from the Mau Maus, no one is willing to travel to come fix it.

"Mau Maus?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes, the Congo has it's Simba, we have the Mau Mau. They were an insurgent group in Kenya, made up mainly of the Kikuyu tribe. It was their goal to expel all the white settlers. The reprisals against Europeans by them began around 1952 and like the Simba, their methods were brutal as they slaughtered men, women and children, both white and black. They even killed members of their own tribe who refused to join in the extermination of the whites. The settlers retaliated and British troops hunted down most of the Mau Mau in the mountain forests, capturing and executing their leaders. This year, the entire Kikuyu tribe was resettled within a guarded area. However, some of the insergents escaped and are now operating in Northern Rhodesia, starting their brutality all over again. It's quite frightening, and now with what's going on in the Belgian Congo and the Katanga region..."

"If it's anything like what we experienced in the Congo, then it must be pretty bad," Napoleon took her hand, kissing it reassuringly. "Thank you dear Maggie for coming to our rescue. It's quite possible Edwin here might be able to repair your phone, he's pretty handy with those sort of things."

"Really, that would be wonderful!" Maggie reached out, being rather presumptuous and gently touched her hand to the Russian's face.

Illya blushed, "I make no promises, but I will try."

"My goodness Mr. Rösbruk, I think you have a fever? May I?"

He nodded his approval as she placed her hands on either side of his face, feeling around his neck. "Hmm, your glands seem to be a little swollen as well. Were you inoculated against malaria?

"We both were," Napoleon answered for him.

"My cousin Richard is a physician...he'll be able to check you out when we get to the family plantation."

Her pronouncement made sense to the Russian as to why he was not feeling well, and again he nodded his approval; no argument on his part for once being checked out by a doctor.


	11. A safe haven

    

Maggie led them to her jeep, parked not far from the refugee camp. Once they drove away Napoleon and Illya both turned back to look at the multitudes of people there that surrounded them, not realizing the immensity of it all. There were row upon row of tents, lean-to's and ramshackle huts piecemealed together by bits and bobs of wood and corrugated tin, all filled with a sea of lost souls.  


  
In the distance back across the border in Katanga columns of black smoke could be seen in the air, reminding the agents just how close a call it had been for them.

They wondered how many people would survive, not only the starvation, but the threat of the war in the Congo spilling over to Rhodesia, as well as the terror of the Mau Mau.

The woman drove quickly, following the contour of the road, trying to miss as many of the pot holes that dotted it. Napoleon, seated beside her in the passenger seat spied a rifle laying ready if she needed it, whether it was from wildlife or human threat.

He had his handgun hidden, while Illya still openly carried his rifle. He had to give Maggie credit, even though he thought her too trusting, and wondered if it was simply because they were white. He hadn't detected and sort of bias on her part...at least not yet. The fact that she was helping in the camp did say a lot.

Their short trip brought them over the Luvua river, and from there the road followed it until they reached their destination. Maggie told them their family ran a rubber plantation here since the 1800's during which there were several revolts from the locals, squelched at the time by Belgian forces who laid claim to the territory along with the British.

Her great-grandfather had come from London seeking fame and fortune and founded the plantation, first growing sugar cane and other things for export, but after the turn of the century it became a rubber plantation, as the demand made that business more lucrative.

 

              

As they pulled up in front of the house built along the side the river, it struck Illya that it looked out of place, and belonged to a different time. Though the house seemed well to do, there was something he couldn't put his finger on about it... perhaps, the old decadence of Miss Kingsfords family had given way to something else...a tiredness, as upon examination, there were signs of decay here and there.

A native servant dressed in a white shirt and pants greeted them at the front door of the once grand house, and Maggie introduced them and instructed him to take her guests to the guest rooms upstairs.

"I'll have fresh clothing and toiletries sent up to you. There's bathroom at the end of the hall, please feel free to bathe. Once you've washed  awaythe dirt of the rainforest from yourselves and are presentable, you can relax until we call you for supper. I'll inform my family we have more guests joining us.

"More guests?" Illya finally spoke up.

Maggie laughed. "You think you are the first whites I've rescued from the camp? I hope roast beef, potatoes and with carrots and peas will suit you, oh yes and Yorkshire puddings as well. None of the local foods are served here, as my great-grandfather would have none of it. We are after all of British stock," she smiled, leaving the servant to escort them upstairs.

The walls were filled with a myriad of paintings, family portraits perhaps, along with carved African masks, and the house was full of lots of greenery...small potted palms were everywhere they looked. It was if the jungle was slowly intruding into the house.

The furniture looked antique and European in design, though most of it seemed to be just a little worn. The rugs were Persian from the look of them, but they too seemed to have suffered the ravages of a tropical environment. It gave the impression they had stepped back in time, the old house must have been a sight to behold in its early days.

Napoleon was shown to his room, filled with dark wood furnishings, the bed was a four-poster canopy with mosquito netting draping gracefully down around it. The mattress was covered with a pure white chenille spread, and he wanted so badly to collapse onto it, and simply relish its softness, but he refrained from doing so as the didn't want to get it dirty. He decided he could last until he'd bathed.

He suddenly recalled a promise he'd made to his partner, and that was that Illya had dibs on the first bath. Napoleon walked across the hall to his partner's room, and found the Russian spread-eagle on his bed, not a canopy style, but the mosquito netting was suspended from the ceiling, and Illya had pulled it away before crawling onto the bed.

He chuckled as the man didn't seem to care about the white bedspread.

"Hey, go take that bath...remember I told you had first crack at one _tovarisch."_

"I will in a moment, thank you. I am just taking in the comfort. This is a feather bed and I have not slept in one like this in a very long time...my babushka had one.." Illya closed his eyes, recalling a distant memory. "Katiya and I would crawl in bed with Baba when we were frightened by the sounds of the war... it was so soft as it comforted both of us, making us feel safe."

Napoleon withheld any sort of remark, much less a witty one. "Come on buddy, go soak in that tub, just leave me a little hot water if you don't mind?

Illya hiked himself up. "Hot water? I am going to take a cold bath, if there is such a thing as cold water in this place." He headed out the door and down the hall to the bathroom.

The room was completely white, with the walls covered in glossy tiles and there were more small palm trees present. Plenty of towels, several white cotton robes, as well as a shaving kit that had been laid out. There seemed to be was a lot of white in this house, as if the owners were trying to make it look pure against the world that surrounded it.

There was no shower, but an old fashioned white clawfoot bathtub. Illya put the stopper in the drain, and turning the spigots, he decided a warm bath would be better for him. As the tub began to fill, he found a bottle of bubble bath on the shelf and poured it into the water...not caring that it smelled like strawberries.

He sighed as he lowered himself into the water and sat there, soaking for a bit and once he was comfortable he scrubbed himself until his skin was pink. He pulled into place a shelf that fit across the width of the tub, with a small face mirror on it, and with the straight razor and shaving cream, he removed the remnants of his beard. Illya splashed his face with the bath water, then dunked his head, giving his hair a wash as well.

Looking at his face in the mirror, he saw the gauntness his beard had hidden. There were dark circles under his eyes. He did not look well, and in spite of the warm bath, his breathing felt a bit ragged. Perhaps an exam by Maggie's cousin might be in order after all?

Illya stepped from the tub, toweling himself dry and putting on one of the robes. He drained the tub, cleaned it in preparation for his partner to use it.

Napoleon was in his room and his partner knocked on the door, before peeking inside.

"Hmm, nice room," he commented, "The bathroom is all yours my friend and I left you plenty of hot water, I promise."

Solo grinned, smelling the scent of the bubble bath wafting towards him.

"Is that strawberries I smell?"

"Yes, and not one word..." Illya quickly closed the door and returned to his room, where he found a khaki shirt, pants, underwear, fresh socks and boots all waiting there for him.

He was nearly finished buttoning his shirt when there was a knock at his door. It wasn't Napoleon's code.

"Come in," he called.

"Hello, I am Dr. Marcus Kingsford, my cousin tells me you are ill."

"That is yet to to be determined Doctor."

"Leave your shirt open please, " Kingsford said, pulling a stethoscope from his black medical bag.

He touched it to Illya's chest, moving it about, asking his patient to take deep breaths and exhalations. Kingsford felt the glands in his neck and under his arms, then came the reflexes. He stuck a thermometer under the Russian's tongue, taking his pulse and checking his pupillary reaction.

"Well Mr. Rösbruk, I suspect that you have the beginning of stages of pneumonia. Given your condition, you'll need bed rest and definitely better food." He pulled a vial from his medical bag, along with a syringe. "I'm going to give you a shot of antibiotics."

"I am allergic to penicillin," Illya took hold of Kingsford wrist, stopping him.

"This is not penicillin, now if you will please release me and allow me to treat you?"

"I apologize, I do have an aversion to needles as well."

"Sorry old chap, but prepare yourself and drop your trousers as I'm not only giving you a shot of antibiotic, but gamma globulin and B12. You are very run down and given your immune system is compromised at the moment; we need to give you a boost."

Illya leaned against the bedpost, doing as ordered for once, and when he went to hike up his trousers the doctor told him not to bother.

Kingsford went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of white cotton pajamas, and handed them to his patient. "Sorry, bed rest for you young man."

"But I was looking forward to the roast beef..."

"Not to worry, there'll be a tray sent up for you, if you have an appetite for it." He patted Illya on the shoulder.

"Do not concern yourself Doctor, I always have an appetite." He tried to smile.

"Good, you need to put on some weight, as does your friend." He winked, and left Illya to change and get into bed.

When the coast was clear, the Russian stepped across the hall to his partner's room, giving his coded knock but not waiting for Napoleon to respond. He found Solo lying on the bed, propped up on pillows with his hands behind his head and dressed in the same sort of khaki clothes.

Now that the dark beard was gone, he could see that his friend had lost quite a bit of weight, but at least he looked healthy.

"Hey _tovarisch_ , just resting up before dinner. So what did the doctor have to say."

"I have pneumonia, and was given antibiotics as well as the usual things to help boost my system. I have been ordered to bed for the moment."

Napoleon sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. "Hmmm, well then you better get back to bed. I'll scout things out, and take a look at the telephone."

"Good, you are reading my mind. The sooner I can get the phone fixed..."

"Yes, I know...the faster we get home."


	12. Be careful what you wish for

                  

At the evening meal, the grey haired patriarch of the family, Cromwell Kinsford, dressed in a white linen suit, was introduced to Anthony Schoonovar, and intern, he introduced the other guests seated at the table.

A balding, portly French botanist name Louis Pascal, a pair of nervous looking British tourists named Elizabeth and Michael Clayworth, and a burly man of German extraction called Breuder, who led big game expeditions in Katanga, were already seated as Napoleon was shown his chair, pulled out for him by Kwasi, who was now wearing a pair of white gloves to go with his white uniform.

Maggie was seated at the table across from Napoleon, her two brothers James and Paul in their mid-twenties, as well as the doctor were seated on either side of him.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Schoonovar, and so sorry to hear your companion Mr. Rosbük is not well. It's lucky my nephew Richard is a physician and can take care of us all. With the political unrest here, it is getting too dangerous to travel, as I must remind my daughter Margaret on a constant basis."

"Thank you sir for your hospitality. If it hadn't been for your daughter's kindness, I'm not sure what Edwin and I would have done." Napoleon answered, sounding rather meek. He was keeping his demeanor more low-key than usual, and acting the part of an innocent.

"I understand you work for a Dutch company?" Cromwell asked.

"Yes sir we do, but from the looks of things, we won't be doing much business here after all," Napoleon sighed dramatically.

"Well I for one am glad I was at the refugee camp and could help you," Maggie smiled.

"Yeah, leave it to my sister to want to go help the _Kaffirs_  and bring home a pair of stray white dogs in the process," Michael hissed.

"Michael, I insist you stop using that Afrikaner term for the coloureds," his father raised his voice. "And our guests are not stray dogs. Your sister was merely doing her due diligence and helping out her fellow whites. No decent person should have to be exposed to that rabble in the camp. Those people simply don't know how to take care of themselves and need to be treated with kindness, and educated to live like civilized people, which I'm afraid has been a difficult task in these parts."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows at the condescending remarks he was hearing. "Sir, I beg to differ, these people have their own distinct culture and way of life that's been torn apart by this awful conflict. Yes, they should be treated with kindness  _and dignity,_  but not looked down upon. They're human beings too."

"Here here, "Richard said, "Finally someone to challenge the pervasive line of thought." He raised his glass of wine in toast, downing it completely, but his voice sounded as if he'd already had a bit too much to drink. "You'll find dinner conversation heeeer, tends to be rather one-sided Mr. Schoonvar, if it goes beyond talk of plantation business," Richard slurred.

"Leave it to the self-righteous Yank to stand up for the coloureds, while in your own country they're second class citizens and merely descendants of slaves. I think you should worry about your own house before you pass judgement on another's, Mr. Schoonovar, " Michael ripped into him.

"Please, please...stop," Maggie interrupted, "That is no way to speak to a guest. You need to mind your manners Michael."

"I have a right to express my opinion."

"Not when it insults my guest. So I'll hear no more of it."

"I do not know how long you have been in Africa but...say what is it exactly you do for a living?" Breuder asked.

"Mr. Rosbrük and I work for an export company in Holland. My Uncle Alexander is the owner and he was looking to expand our business interests in the Congo. We deal in building supplies, water purification systems and so forth. Edwin and I had only been here a few weeks when the coup took place."

"See, what did I tell you! Only here a few weeks and you pass judgement on us, "Michael blurted out."

"He is partly correct Mr. Schoonovar,' Breuder said. "as are you. I have worked with many of the tribes and they are a simple but canny people who know the land and how to live off of it. I see nothing wrong with their ways, but educating the young would only improve their lot in life and make them aware of the bigger world outside their villages."

"Yes,"Napoleon agreed, speaking more succinctly, as he was becoming annoyed, "there's no denying that education is a good thing for any person, but with the attitudes I see here, there would be little opportunity for any of the indigenous to improve their so called, 'lot in life' and if they did... at what cost, I might add. It seems you want them to become more white, abandoning their traditions, and yet be nothing more than servants." He eyed Kwasi, standing there motionless all this time, as if he didn't exist and felt embarrassed the man was forced to listen to this drivel. "And Michael, we may not be perfect in the U.S. but we are trying to smooth things out and make amends for the past. Our first amendment rights include everyone and aren't for a  _privileged_  few."

"Maybe in writing, but it's not worth the paper it's written on if it isn't the same for everyone," Maggie agreed.

" _Mon Dieu_ , let us face facts, the negro race is not looked upon well throughout the world...there must be a reason for it,  _n'est ce pas_? The botanist, Pascal interjected.

"No  _Monsieur_  Pascal, you're wrong," Maggie snapped.

"That's right Maggie," James finally spoke up, "stick up for your precious coloureds."

She glared at her other brother. "Please, can we just enjoy our meal in peace?" Maggie pleaded.

Napoleon shook his head in disgust, deciding not to continue to engage these people any further in conversation. They sooner he and Illya were out of this place, the happier he'd be.

Dinner was served and eaten in silence, and once it was over Solo thanked his hosts for a fine meal. He carried a tray upstairs for Illya, refusing to let Kwasi do it.

When he opened the door, he found his partner wrapped in several blankets, sweating heavily, and not because of the air temperature. He looked pretty bad.

"How you feeling chum?"

"I have been better. I think perhaps the fever has broken...did you get to look at the telephone yet?" His glassy blue eyes gravitated to the tray Napoleon was carrying.

"Ah the roast beef dinner," Illya tried smiling, as Solo laid the tray on his lap.

"No not yet. I thought getting you your dinner needed priority." Napoleon watched as his partner tried to dig the food, at first devouring it with gusto.. "Good to see your appetite is intact."

"Actually it is not, I have no inclination for seconds," Illya said, not even finishing what was left on his plate before pushing it aside.

"Hmm, sure that fever has broken?" Napoleon laid his hand on the Russian's forehead.

"You do feel a bit cooler."

"Good, then I will go have a look at that telephone. I have no desire to languish here in a bed, comfortable though it may be."

"Suit yourself, but promise me you'll get right back to it anyway, once you're finished? I want you better asap so we can get out of this place. You would have been charmed by the dinner conversation," Napoleon answered sarcastically.

"Yes, I will...once the phone is repaired and we have contacted headquarters."

Illya put on his robe, remaining in his pajamas and walked barefoot alongside his American friend as they headed downstairs. There they met Kwasi and he directed them to the telephone.

"This way, gentleman. It is in the study but it does not work," he spoke in clipped English.

"We are going to try to fix it," Illya said.

They were shown to the room and on a large oak desk sat an antiquated black rotary telephone. Illya immediately took the receiver apart, examining the components, and found them all in order. It was when he opened the base of the phone itself, he immediately saw the problem. The wires within were corroded, and needed to be replaced.

"Kwasi are there any such wires here in the house that I might use?" Illya asked.

"No sir, I told Master Cromwell already this was what needed to be done to repair it, but they do not listen to one such as me."

"These people are too much," Napoleon said to his partner.

Maggie Kingsford walked into the study at that moment "Who is too much?" She asked, spotting the phone in Edwin's hands. "Ah I see you are trying to repair it. Thank you Mr. Rosbrük, but should you be out of bed?"

The Russian ignored her question. "I am afraid it is a lost cause Miss Kingsford, the internal wires are corroded and need replacing. Kwasi has told me there are no such fine wires to be had," Illya answered, but broke into a congested cough.

"Oh dear, so close yet so far. I know you're anxious to get hold of your Uncle...would a shortwave radio help perhaps?"

"You have a radio?" Napoleon blurted out.

"Yes, all the plantations have them to keep in touch with each other, in case of any emergency."

"Maggie that's wonderful news as it can definitely help. Where is it?

"It's in the back of the house...I'll show you  _Anthony._  Now Mr. Rosbrük, I suggest you get back to bed before Richard sees you. He doesn't take kindly to doctor's orders being ignored. Kwasi, please show the gentleman back up to his room."

"Yes Miss," the servant answered dutifully. Illya followed him without any further discussion.

"The radio is this way," she smiled entrancingly at Napoleon.

He'd seen that look in a woman's eyes before, she was flirting with him, there was no doubt about it. That was something he'd perhaps deal with later, but first things first... _the radio_.


	13. Serenity

                                          

Maggie guided Napoleon to a small alcove located just off the kitchen, pointing to the black radio sitting on a table, with a microphone in front of it.'

After giving it a quick once over, he flicked the switch, turning it on, waiting for it to warm up. He looked at Maggie, figuring he couldn't ask her to leave and decided to trust her with some of the truth.

"Look, I wasn't, well we weren't exactly truthful with you when we told you who we were..."

Maggie smiled. "I sort of figured that with the way you two were dressed, and both of you were carrying handguns. Yes I saw the pistol tucked under your shirt and I had a feeling you knew how to use it. You and your friend don't exactly look and sound like 'businessmen.' I took you for a couple of mercenaries or some such."

Napoleon reached over, brushing a strand of hair out her eyes. "Well, you are partly right. My partner and I work for an organization called the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

"Oh so you're policemen?" She concluded, though she'd never heard of UNCLE.

"Sort of, but let's leave it at that. The rest of our story about being caught in the coup and escaping was the truth, and now I need to contact my headquarters for an extraction...we need to get out of here.

"So are Anthony Schoonovar and Edwin Rosbrük really your names?"

"No, my name is Solo...Napoleon Solo, and my partner is Illya Kuryakin."

"Hmm, unusual names, Illya and Napoleon," Maggie smiled, "The Emperor and the Russian. Don't worry, your secrets are safe with me, if you make me one promise?"

"What's that?" He flashed her a smile.

"Please take the Clayworths with you when you leave? They're frightened out of their wits and need to get home to England."

"I think we can manage that, let's say we seal the deal?" Napoleon leaned into her, giving her a long, passionate kiss, and she responded in kind.

"Okay," he finally said, pulling away from her after a few breathless moments. "Now to the radio."

He turned the dial, as the speaker emitted squeaks and squawks while he tried to find the right low-end frequency, when he did, he picked up the microphone and spoke into it.

"This is Napoleon Solo number one section two UNCLE Northwest come in Cairo. Code 713889. He repeated the message several times before receiving a response.

"This is Cairo, repeat your code please." Napoleon did as he was asked.

"That's an old code. How are we to know you are who you say you are?"

"Contact Alexander Waverly in New York and he'll verify me by voice recognition if need be."

"Hold on...what is your location?"

"Northern Rhodesia, my partner Mr. Kuryakin and I are at the Kingsford Rubber plantation. We need a helicopter extraction for ourselves and two other passengers. Mr. Kuryakin has a touch of pneumonia, so if an oxygen tank could be brought..."

"Hold please."

.

Alexander Waverly was sitting at his conference table going through a stack of files, reluctantly looking at replacements for his CEA and second. At this point it had been nearly seven weeks since Solo and Kuryakin had last been heard from, and he had to assume they'd perished during their attempted escape from the Congo to Northern Rhodesia.

He flipped through the files with a heavy heart, as Solo and Kuryakin were not only his best agents, they were outstanding individuals. He was not wont to admit publicly, but he'd grown rather fond of them, and they would be missed.

April Dancer and Mark Slate, were at the moment, tops on his list to replace his number one team, but he had reservations Section II might not respond well to a female CEA. So far it had been an uphill battle for Miss Dancer to be accepted as an equal for all intents and purposes in a men's world.

The telephone rang at his console, calling him from his thoughts.

"Yes."

"Mr. Waverly sir, I have a direct communication from Mr. Hawas of our Cairo office."

"Patch him through." He hung up the telephone receiver and picked up the hand-held microphone at his console.

"Yes Asim, what can I do for you old chap?

"Alexander, I have on the short wave radio, a man claiming to be Napoleon Solo."

Waverly couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat, though anyone looking at the man wouldn't have noticed a change in his demeanor.

"Did he give a proper code?"

"Yes, though it was a few months old."

"And his partner Mr. Kuryakin?

"He says he is with him and they are both unharmed but run ragged as he put it. Mr. Solo mentioned Mr. Kuryakin having a case of pneumonia. He is requesting a helicopter extraction."

"By all means, do so at once. They were caught up in the conflict in the Belgian Congo and had been trying to escape. At this point I was beginning to think they hadn't survived as it had been over six weeks since we'd lost contact with them."

"Alexander, I'll send a helicopter to their location as soon as we are able; we are in the midst of a small sandstorm at the moment, a precursor to the Khamsin that is soon to begin. As you know the high winds and those sandstorms generated by it can last up to fifty days. If we are not able to get out before they start, then I'm afraid sending a helicopter will be out of the question."

"Very well, notify me when your are able to launch. Out."

Hawas got back on the radio, but had no need to repeat anything, as Napoleon had been able to hear the conversation between the two men.

"How long, best guess?"

"Two days, I am hoping Mr. Solo. I cannot promise any sooner, but we will try our best ."

Napoleon breathed a long sigh of relief as there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel.

"Two days?" Maggie said, disappointment evident in her voice.

Napoleon left her and retreated upstairs to tell Illya the good news, but found his partner asleep, and rather than wake him, he closed the door quietly and went to his own room.

The night air was slightly cooler but still humid and a breeze gently blew the gossamer curtains that draped across the windows.  
  
Napoleon stepped outside onto the balcony, now stripped of his clothing and wearing only light pajama bottoms, He took a deep relaxing breath, listening to the sounds of the night creatures, and the nearby river. It was so peaceful with the moon high in a hazy sky reflected on the water, and he found it hard to believe there was so much suffering not far away in the camp.

  
                                        

  
Frogs sang their evening chorus, suddenly bringing tiredness to the American, joined by the feeling of sadness. He was wracked with the frustration of not being able to help the innocents caught up in this revolution, if that's what it really was.  


He turned, looking at his bed, knowing for once the sounds of the rainforest could lull him to sleep without any fear. Still, he longed for the songs of his world, the tempo and noise of New York city...it would be good to get home.

He heard the door to his room creak open and moved quickly, taking hold of his pistol tucked beneath a bed pillow...

"Napoleon?" It was Maggie. "I'd like to apologize for my family's behavior tonight."

He smiled at her, as she walked towards him, unbuttoning her white floral dress and letting it drop to the floor. She stepped between him and the balcony door, with the moonlight bathing her lithe body in an enticing silhouette.

He moved behind her, nuzzling the nape of her neck as he wrapped his arms around her and she slowly turned to face him, offering her lips.

Napoleon pulled her to him, letting his hands roam as he kissed her with a different kind of hunger. It seemed as though ages had passed since he'd breathed in the scent of a woman, and feeling her shudder at his touch, he lifted Maggie up, and carried her to the bed where they made love to each other.

She remained there with him until dawn, when she slipped out of bed and dressed herself. Napoleon rose, stepping towards her and taking her in his arms one more time, and kissed her before she left.

He climbed back into bed, quickly falling asleep with a feeling serenity, one he'd not felt, it seemed, for a very long time


	14. The end is nigh

 

                        

  
  
 The sun was shining high into the sky when a knock at Napoleon's door woke him, and he looked with eyes that were barely willing to   open at the wooden clock on the wall, seeing that it was nearly noon.   
  
"Come in," he called out, after putting on his robe.   
  
"Good morning sleepy head." It was Maggie and she had a tray of food with her."I think you could have slept the entire day away."   
  
"It think you're right," he yawned.   
  
She placed the tray on a nearby table, pulling up a chair as Napoleon seated himself beside her. He reached out, taking her hand and gave it a gentle kiss.

 

"Mmm, looks good," he said, eyeing sausage, eggs, scones, a bowl of fresh fruit, and most of all a pot of coffee."Thank you." Napoleon poured himself a cup and one for her."

After the meal was finished, Maggie gave him some bad news...

"Napoleon, I'm afraid your friend...Illya has taken a turn for the worse. His fever is back again, he's congested and coughing. Richard says it's full-blown pneumonia, and he really needs to be hospitalized. The nearest one is quite far off in our capital city, Livingstone, but if we..."

"No we can't risk that sort of trip, he's been through enough. The helicopter will be here for us."

"Are you so sure? These sandstorms in Egypt can be quite debilitating. I've been in Cairo during the  _Khasim_ , and everything practically shuts down."

"I have faith Maggie, they'll come through for us. So I suggest you have the Clayworths ready for travel. There is the off-chance the helicopter could arrive sooner than expected."

An unexpected knock a the door interrupted their conversation. "Who is it?"Margaret called out.

"Kwasi, Miss."

She opened the door, giving him a stern look. "What is it now?"

"There is a Belgian officer at the door who says he is looking two men who fit Mr. Schoonvar and Mr. Rosbrük's descriptions. He is quite adamant about speaking to someone."

"Where are my father and brothers?"

"In the field Miss."

"You did right to fetch me then.: She turned to Solo...

"I heard."

"I'll get rid of him for you," Maggie answered, closing the door behind her.

Napoleon stepped out to the balcony, drawing his pistol and holding it ready as he hid himself from view behind a potted palm, listening to the conversation below.

 

 

                                                       

"May I help you sir?" Maggie spoke calmly.

"Yes, please pardon my intrusion, Madam. You are Margaret Kinsford?"

Napoleon recognized him as the Colonel who'd interrogated them at the border.

"Yes I am, what can I do to help you?"

"You were seen several days ago in the company of two white men at the refugee camp... one dressed in a Russian uniform and the other in a Belgian uniform."

Maggie paused, pretending to think for a moment. "Oh, yes, I recall them. I fed them soup at the food tent and afterwards gave them a lift on the road heading to Lusaka..."

"Did they say that was where they were headed?"

"No not really. They were not very talkative. Did they do something wrong?"

"Yes, we believe they are spies and were holding them in custody. They injured several of my men during their escape. If you happen to see them again, stay clear as they a very dangerous. Send one of your people to notify me if the are seen in the next twenty four hours, as I will be stationing men at the border crossing near the refugee camp."

"Oh my goodness, spies you say? Well I for one hope they are long gone, thank you Colonel. Now if you would excuse me, I must attend to the midday meal for my family. Thank you and good day."

Napoleon smiled as he heard her summarily dismiss the man and close the door, no doubt, in his face. He continued watching as the Colonel climbed back into the jeep and waited until it was out of sight before returning to his room.

There was a knock and Maggie came right in this time. "How did I do?" She stopped short, seeing the gun in his hand.

"Couldn't have done any better myself." Napoleon grinned, and quickly tucked his weapon under a pillow in one swift move. He pulled the woman into his arms and down to the bed as he kissed her playfully, sending her into a fit of giggles while he helped her remove her clothing...

After relaxing in the afterglow, Maggie finally rose from his side, dressing herself, and giving Napoleon one last kiss as she left him with a sad nod, taking the brunch tray with her. Margaret Kingsford knew she'd not see this handsome man again once he'd left, but that was something she'd have to live with, like so many other things. She wasn't sure what had drawn her to him; perhaps it was loneliness as there weren't many eligible bachelors in the area. Or was it possibly that she sensed he was dangerous, and that was a lure like a honeybee to a flower to her...it was a different kind of excitement, and she liked it.

Napoleon dressed himself and went to Illya's room, finding his partner awake but coughing badly. He spied a red glass bottle of cough syrup with codeine on the nightstand, and opening it, he poured out a spoon full, offering it to his friend.

Illya opened his mouth like a little child, letting his partner minister to him. Though he'd been given the shots by the doctor, he felt weaker than a day old kitten and knew his condition was worsening by the minute.

"Hey good news buddy, a chopper should be here within a couple of days at the latest. We're going home, by way of Cairo. You'll need to hit medical there of course, but at least we'll be in an UNCLE headquarters, and that's as good as home right now."

Illya nodded, trying to fight off another bout of coughing. "We did it, did we not?"

"What do you mean chum?"

"We made it out alive...well at least you did. I am not so sure about me." He started hacking away again.

"Hey none of that fatalistic crap, you're going to be fine. Promise me you won't give up."

"I never give up," Kuryakin smiled mischievously, though at the moment he felt like doing so. His chest was hurting terribly and  
breathing was becoming very difficult. I was beginning to think he was really going to die.  
  


The next morning the sound of an approaching helicopter filled the air, as it slowly descended to touch down on the lawn in front of the house. The Kingsfords and their guests stood by as two of their servants carried Illya on a cot, helping to load him into bay as he was too weak to walk. The Clayworths said their farewells and climbed into the passenger seats in the rear.

Napoleon offered his gratitude to the Kingsfords for their hospitality and wished them good luck, with Maggie walking him to the chopper. She said nothing, but gave him a peck on the cheek before backing away and watching the American climb on board.

He waved, pulling the door shut and moments later the helicopter rose with the blades whipping up the hot air. Solo looked out the window to the west, seeing more black smoke plumes rising into the sky from Katanga, ones that were even closer now.  
  
Wondering if the fighting would spill into Rhodesia. he hoped the people in the camp would somehow remain safe, as would Maggie and her family.


	15. The Conclusion

 

                 

  
  
The sounds of city were like music to Napoleon's ears, right down to the taxi horns blaring, along with the other cacophonous noises that were part of the symphony of New York; a fanfare of sorts, telling him they were finally home.

 

It had been nearly two weeks since they'd arrived at Cairo and began the healing process and now Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were at last walking through the entrance at Del Floria's; hearing the familiar tinkle of the brass bell making them both smile. The Russian had responded quickly to his treatments and medications, and like his partner, was happy to be back on familiar turf at last.

Their ordeal in the Congo still weighed heavily on them, both emotionally and physically. Medical having determined the agents were too traumatized and would, therefore, only be authorized for light duty for the time being. Both men needed to gain back some weight, and of course there was the concern over Kuryakin having a relapse.

"Welcome back," Del nodded as they walked past, heading for the dressing room.

A new receptionist greeted them at the agent's entrance, surprisingly she was... a he.

"And you are?" Napoleon asked, disappointed there wasn't a lovely lady sitting there to pin on his badge, as he was so accustomed to having it done for him.

"Agent John Evans Mr. Solo." He handed the senior agent, and Illya their badges. "Mr. Waverly is expecting you in his conference room."

Napoleon scrunched up his face with a dissatisfied look as they passed through the secondary entrance, and there they spotted the UNCLE logo freshly painted on the steel-grey wall to their left.

"Wow, some things have changed in only a couple of months," Napoleon said.

"It is a cheerful sight, seeing some color on these drab walls, and I for one like it." The presence of the male receptionist gave him a sense of satisfaction, seeing his partner deprived of his morning flirtation. since the ladies never pinned the Russian's badge on for him. His musings on that subject, he kept to himself.

After their debrief with the Old Man, the partners headed to their office to catch up on the reports that had piled up in their absence.

"Never thought I'd say this, but I'm happy to see those files," "Napoleon said, staring at his desk, and the number folders sitting there.

"Why, when I am usually the one working on them for you?"

"Good your sense of humor is back chum. I wish I could say that..."Napoleon's voice trailed off. "This Congo business still has me churned up. That was some bloody mess we went through."

 

             

"Revolutions are usually bloody, but not like that one, I think," Illya said. Something in his voice gave away that he was still shaken by their ordeal.

"Hopefully they'll come a day when this kind of thing won't happen anymore  _tovarisch_ , and things can be resolved peacefully."

"You are ever the optimist Napoleon," Illya shook his head. Deep down inside he was still angered by the wanton depravity they'd witnessed. He never took the loss or abuse of innocents very well.

"I'm not feeling as optimistic as you think...have you ever read  _'The Lost World_ ' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." Napoleon asked, sitting on the corner of his desk.

"No I have not." Illya replied while flipping through some of the folders.

There's a line in it that comes to mind, spoken by the character 'Lord John Roxton', to paraphrase it, ' _There are times...when every one of us must make a stand for human rights and justice, or you never feel clean again.'_  "Right now lllya, I feel very unclean."

"Napoleon we have taken our stand, but there is not much that we can do about it at the moment. It is just too big even for UNCLE to tackle. No, I do not feel unclean, nor should you, though I am angered by the senseless killing and violence. That has no justification regardless of the circumstances."

Napoleon remained silent.

"We have saved the world how many times? This one instance is not a blot on our record, and only time will tell us if there is to be peace in that part of Africa. We are witnessing the birth pangs of new nations, and as with many revolutions, there is much bloodshed and suffering. These are things you and I could not stop, no matter how much we wanted to. We were lucky enough to have escaped with our lives, unlike so many others,"

"True partner mine, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. "

Illya stared into his friend's hazel eyes, normally filled with confidence and bravado, but at the moment they seemed sad and unsure.

"Do not punish yourself for that which you could not control my friend. We do what we can, and for now that has to be enough. One can only hope some good will arise from this bloody revolution. No country was ever born without blood being shed, it is a fact that we must accept."

"The women and children Illya...the innocents, they weren't part of the revolution, they were the victims of ignorance and of bigotry."

"Napoleon I have no clear answers for you. All we can do is watch and hope those guilty of such heinous crimes will someday be brought to justice. Now come, I am hungry and we have been told we still need to put on more weight, so come join me in the commissary. The paperwork can wait."

Napoleon finally smiled. "To hell with the commissary, let's go get some of the biggest, juiciest steaks we can get at Delmonico's. Since we're both under doctor's orders, I see no reason why we can't use our expense accounts as we'd just be following instructions," Napoleon winked.

"For once we are in complete agreement,"Illya smiled. "Do you think I might have a lobster with my steak?"

"Hmm, a little decadence partner mine?" Napoleon grinned. "Hey order anything. Have the Lobster Newberg if you like...we need to build up some strength to save the world don't we?"

Kuryakin nodded, glad to see his partner was at least showing signs that he was feeling better on the surface, though no doubt he was still troubled. They both were.

It would take time for Napoleon to get over these feelings, but Illya was a patient man...

.

Alexander Waverly spoke into the telephone receiver at his desk.

"Estelle my darling, for the moment all's right with the world again, at least within U.N.C.L.E. Let's say we take a quick trip to see our newest grandchild. That's a fine name Florence chose for her daughter, Emily Alexis..."

He took a long drag on his pipe, and smiled as he sent circles of smoke into the air...

A light on Waverly's console flashed brightly, forcing him to hang up with his wife. The news he received was most disconcerting, and it was at that moment he decided to withhold the information from his two top operatives, at least for now. They needed to continue their recovery and could ill-afford any setbacks.

The Kingsford plantation had been overrun and burned to the ground, it was presumed by factions loyal to Mau Mau, and were led by a man named Kwasi.

No one survived...


End file.
